


Holy Hands

by theartofrevolution



Category: Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mandalorian Culture, Religious Guilt, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:35:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24910942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theartofrevolution/pseuds/theartofrevolution
Summary: The Mandalorian grappels with his repressed feelings and religious s guilt toward his female traveling companion.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Original Female Character(s), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 62





	Holy Hands

**Author's Note:**

> First off: everything about the Mandalorian religion /religion of weapons and beskar mentioned in here is completely made up by me
> 
> Second: as a long time fanfic reader this is my first published work
> 
> Third: english isn't my first language so....

Walking the way means being in control of your body, your mind and your soul. Emptying yourself out, making yourself a vessel for purpose driven action. You are a living breathing machine, like clockwork, giving your all for family, clan and culture. The ideal warrior. There is no other source of fulfillment and pleasure than the way, no other source of finding a place in the world.  
This is the religion of the beskar, this is the way of mandalore. 

The Mandalorian is kneeling in front of his weaponry, a dull ache in his bones from kneeling too long, a blaster and a rag in his hands, cleaning. Dust dances in the sunlight from another part of the ship illuminating the scene. He cleans his blaster slowly, meditativly, reciting in his mind the words of the creed, of the mandalorian way. In meditation those words turn into some sort of white noise background for the thoughts that are tucked away neatly in the very back of this mind. Thoughts that made him want to vomit to get them out or maybe cut them out of his brain with a sharp blade or simply leave this form behind because so far trying to escape them has only made them worse. Filth, disgusting filth filled those dark corners in the back of his consciousness. It crossed his mind that if anyone who follows the way would ever find out the helmet would be taken from him for this. 

~ Gloves slide of his hands falling to the floor, soft skin under his finger tips, hot blood pumping through dilated veins, gasping for breath. He takes the helmet off because he can't bear it anymore and touches his forehead to hers. Bruising gip on the hips in his hands. Ragged breaths escaping open mouths. Crashing together almost clumsily from desperation ~

The blaster cladders to the floor. The noise shoots electric currents of genuine shock up his spine, his heart threatening to jump out of his ribcage. How hadn't he noticed that he was this lost? Lost in the tar black bog that was his daydreams. He dropped the blaster, which was bad enough, disrespectful even, during a ceremonial cleaning but even worse he dropped it because he thought about taking his helmet of for her. He thought about being anything else than a warrior and derived pleasure from it. Sighing he reached for the blaster and put it back in its holdings, starting again with the very first weapon he cleaned about an hour ago, ignoring the unforgiving metal floor below him. He's gonna wake up with freshly bruised shins tomorrow. 

When the Mandalorian had met the woman she was looking for a job and he was looking for someone to look after the child when he is away. When he looks at her now he clenches his knuckles until he cuts the blood circulation of. The numb pain reminds him of who his and that this is wrong. He isn't a man who longs for a woman's touch, he isn't a man who feels lovingly towards anything else than his way. He turns the seat away from her cradling the child and looking out the cockpit of the Crest through his visor. He grounds himself. The helmet makes me one of many, we walk the way as equals, i am no one except a man of the way, except a warrior of Mandalore, he riminds himself. 

That was what he did, numbing himself as best as possible, reminding himself of his creed. Forcing his mind to be hard and unwavering like beskar. Until one night he sat alone in the cockpit with the woman. The child had been brought to bed. They chatted about irrelevant things until they had nothing to talk about anymore. She gazed out into the vast of space with a look on her face he couldn't read. He turned away feeling like she needed some privacy. Then there was a hand on his knee, slim fingers slipping between his knee and thigh plate, squeezing gently. "Thank you for everything" she said, eyes shining in the fluorescent lighting.  
The mandalorian sucked in a sharp breath. He was positively overwhelmed. Neurons firing into overdrive. A mahlstrohm of guilt, love, fear, arousal send his nervendings screaming for more. Touch me!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
